Rosary
by Sky Blue Angel
Summary: What started out as a writing exercise and is now a series of them. Belief, religion, love, fear and silence all come together to create... something. 1x2, 3x4/x5 once it's complete.
1. 01

For the beads touch my fingers, hear my prayers

Disclaimer: Not mine

Warning: Uh. 1x2 if you kinda squint? Religion (sorta) Attempts at… god, I dunno. A strange combination of introspection/observation/nothing. Mostly a writing exercise.

For the beads touch my fingers, hear my prayers  
Bruises only fade, they do not disappear

The rosary is supposed to be something private, something special. Duo shouldn't be sitting in front of me. Those beads shouldn't be caressing his fingers, lining up so perfectly. How can I still hear the murmurs under his breath? Why is he letting me see? Doesn't he know I'm awake? But my breathing hasn't changed, I haven't moved a muscle. He should know. He always knows. I close my eyes again when he moves, lids snapping closed until there's nothing but darkness behind them.

But his eyes are closed and the words are so soft, so soft. How can he pray like that? His voice… I didn't even know his voice could be the quiet. It's a whisper, it's less than a whisper. It's a breath. His voice is so soft I'm falling into it, I can't pull myself away. His prayers are filling all my thoughts. How can I let this happen so easily? What is it about Shinigami that draws me into him? Why can I resist?

Wonders, so many wonders, so many questions and I can't make out the words. I should be able to, all my focus has honed in on those words. Yet they're nothing more than sounds, his voice and no syllables focused enough to make out the letters. If I opened my eyes again, moved… if I looked at him… I could read his lips. But he'd stop if I moved, wouldn't he? This private moment. I'm an intruder, an interloper, transfixed by the tone of his voice that isn't mine to hear.

Why don't I want to wake up? All I have to do is twitch, move a finger, hitch a breath

and he'll stop and I'll get up. That'll be the end of it all. But I haven't moved yet. I don't know how long he's been murmuring; I don't know how long I've been listening. How can I stop? How can I break the hold that voice has over me? I can't let this rule me. I can't let myself be stopped by something so little, something so simple.

But my eyes don't open again until his prayers have fallen silent and I hear his beads rattling against each other, sliding into some secret pocket I'll never see and I'll never look for either. Only then do I let a little hitch in my breathing inform him I'm awake; only then do I let out the tension that I'd imagined in my arms and twitched my finger.

"Hn." That's the only sound I can make. I should make another sound, I should say something as my eyes open and see his braid, see the back of his head and the black expanse of his costume, it is a costume, isn't it? I sit up, I have to have sat up because the angle changed while my eyes were tracing up his hair, up his back. And before he can open his mouth, though only be a second, I'm on my feet and heading out of the room. My laptop's in my hand, my gun at my waist, my feet silent on the wooden floors as I leave him behind.

If I stop, turn around, look at him, hear him, pause for him, think about him… I'll never go.


	2. 02

My prayers are unheeded, silent and beseeched

Disclaimer: Not mine

Warning: More 1x2 than before, another writing exercise. Now officially To Be Continued (hopefully) with parts for all the pilots.

My prayers are unheeded, silent and beseeched

Head lowered to my chest, strength leached

I don't know why I kept this rosary. It wasn't from Maxwell church, it wasn't from anyone I knew. I found it on the ground when I was walking behind a safehouse, scouting out the secret door I knew was always somewhere. And there it was, bright red beads and little silver cross glittering on the glass. I know someone probably dropped it, I'm sure someone missed it, I'm sure someone would have found it again eventually. But I picked up and tucked it into a pocket inside my jacket, as if I don't have enough of those already.

He'd lain on the bed silently, not so much as grunt before he fell asleep. I reached into my jacket, removed the little rosary. What did I remember? Did I remember all the steps, all the words they used to whisper when we prayed? Did I even have a rosary? I don't remember the colors, if I did. It's all been lost in the color of fire. Maybe that's why these beads are red, maybe that's why I can't quite give this up. Or maybe there's something else behind this…

I know he's awake behind. It couldn't be more obvious. There's no change, but I know. I always know. No, I don't know how or why. I just do. There's some kind of change, some little change in him that shows me he's aware. But he hasn't moved. And the rosary is so smooth between my fingers, gliding like water until the cross bumps against my skin. Do I remember the words? I close my eyes for a moment and try to find my voice. That should be easy.

But all that issues forth from my lips is a whisper and it's not a prayer. How could that ever be a prayer? His name is nothing like the words I used to hear. But it's the only word that seems to be coming. At least it's quiet, barely a breath. I don't want to use my voice already. I want him to speak. I don't know what he'd say. I don't know what I want him to say. Why am I waiting for his voice?

The soft litany of his name had found a rhythm in my fingers and my voice, stroking the beads with the very tips of my fingers. Can he hear me? Or is my voice truly so soft that he can't understand? If he knew what I was saying, would he still be laying there like that, silent and still, pretending to sleep? I breath out slowly as I murmur an ending, knowing I can't continue forever. He'd never move if I kept whispering, would he? "Amen," My voice is silent, the word mouthed, as I slowly tuck the little chain of beads back into my hidden pocket.

"Hn." That's as close to a word as he gets and I can't turn around because I already knew he was awake. Is he trying to give me warning, more warning after the tiny change of breath and that little twitch? I heard the way he moved on the bed even before he spoke. And now I can hear him sitting up. Am I still breathing? Did he hear me? Can I bear to turn around and see his ice cold eyes? I've been sitting here for so long, saying his name, stroking the rosary. I want to turn and speak. To start my chatter and not stop until he leaves. But when I turn, he's already turning away. And before I can start, he's out the door. His laptop, his gun, everything packed up neatly in so few movements I didn't even see them. And his feet are silent on the ground.

Would I have been able to let him go if I'd started to talk? I don't even know…


	3. 03

Scars of strengths and weakness, both intertwined

Disclaimer: Not mine

Warning: Welcome to the 3x4 (+5) section of the story. Quatre is performing a Salaat in the following stories. Not many warnings again, save that this is all an exercise.

Scars of strengths and weakness, both intertwined

As I touch the cross, eyes closed to leave me blind

I never had religion. There was never a chance for it to find a place in my heart, my mind or my soul. Maybe that's why it doesn't mean anything to me. There were no bedtime prayers, no moments in the sun thanking God for his gifts. I've heard much more now, I've seen crosses and stars and I've heard of Mecca. But I don't understand. I don't think I'll ever understand. It's something instilled in childhood. And as war rages on around us, as we fight this war, I don't think I want to understand. What can faith bring us as the world falls apart beneath our feet?

But he always goes and he stands in the sun. I watch him now. I didn't used to, I didn't dare. It felt like a violation, like watching a private moment and a private ritual. And I am a private person. He isn't and I always forget. He invited me, one morning, to watch. Drew me to the balcony by the tips of my fingers and showed me how he knew which way to face, how he used the sun and the stars to position himself just right. He spoke softly, in English, in Arabic, guiding me to face him, to stand a few feet away and told me to watch. He didn't say why and he didn't need to. He's never needed to explain himself to me.

And, softly, he explained it to me. I don't know why. But I let his voice flow over me as he explained the ablution. He touched a stone, drew his hand across his face. No water because it wasn't available right there, because he wasn't willing to draw me so far when he'd finally found the perfect spot for me to stand. I watched his fingers on his face. They seemed so delicate, lightly stroking the pale skin as he spoke. Now the words were in Arabic and I wished I understood. Why had my training ignored that language, those beautiful words and the symbolism I desperately wanted to understand and know?

He spoke in English again, so softly I almost didn't catch the words. I was too focused on his movements, on his hands and his arms and his face. When did that peace sneak in, when did he start to look so calm? Each motion is well-practiced, easing into the next with the soft Arabic in-between. But when he speaks to me, when eh changes languages, he offers explanations. It's… wrong. Jarring. Those changes aren't needed. I won't understand. Why does he wanted me to? What kind of difference can it make?

I reach out, touch a finger to his lip between two English words. His eyes widen and I shake my head. One shake is all he needs to understand. And the Arabic begins again. It washes over me. I don't understand the words but I wouldn't understand them, not even if he explained. But there's more to understanding than the words and the faith. Which is why I watch him. He bows so deeply, cut in half as he lowers his head. And then he kneels, he kneels on the pad and I find my breath catching in my throat. Where he placed me, where he stood me… his head is lowered to the ground before my feet. His hands are on either side of his face. Do I dare to move? Do I dare to breath?

When he sits up, he looks to either side. Because he knew, he always knows, that looking at me would have broken the spell.


	4. 04

In the darkness, I don't need my eyes to see

Disclaimer: Not mine

Warning: Welcome to the 3x4 (+5) section of the story. Quatre is performing a Salaat in the following stories. In this story, I embrace Quatre's 'space heart' and employ the idea of his being a weak empath. Forgive me?

In the darkness, I don't need my eyes to see

Hiding in the light, I use my heart to guide me

I know he doesn't understand. As simple as it seems to me, it's all shadows and misunderstandings to him. But I have to show him. Maybe not the meaning, maybe not why I care; I just have to show him. We don't need any secrets here. No more secrets, I promised myself. Not since I touched his hand and he touched my heart. I'm going to share. I'm going to show him everything and, someday, he'll understand. He'll understand because I'll never stop explaining. He wants to understand so badly. How can I let him in?

His hand is warm in mine, it always is. I love his long fingers, the way they seem to stretch and the way they curl around my hand automatically. When did we stop thinking about this, when did it become so real? The balcony is waiting. I already know where to look, how to stand, why. But I remember the words my father used and I show him. I show him all the little details, all the little tricks and tips and secrets that don't have anything to do with belief. This is tradition, I try to tell him. It doesn't have to be about blind faith. It's so much more.

But I can't just pray in English. It wouldn't be right. The ideas aren't the same. Gently I release his hand, standing him in the line of the sun. His halo's visible like this, when only I can see. I can see the sun behind him and it's all I can do not to throw my arms around his neck and never let go. But first impulses aren't always right and this isn't about me. This is showing him, explaining to him. My switches between Arabic and English are natural as I touch each part of my body, feel the renewal I've always known. But I can feel the tiny knot in my stomach. Will he understand?

His finger brushes my lips and I'm not sure fig I want to look at him. But my eyes focus and the tiny shake of his head relieves me. He isn't going to walk away. This isn't coming to an end before it even starts. All he wants to do it watch. I can see it in his eyes, in the little movements as his hand lowers back to his side. I breath out, bowing. Who am I bowing to? In this moment, lost, who do I truly want to heed my prayers?

Slowly I lower myself to my knees. Is that a catch in his breath? Or I am putting my own wishes onto his actions? I can't look at him. My eyes are focused on the sun between his knees, the bright light. I don't squint any more. There's nothing brighter than Trowa, nothing that can blind me like his smile. But I can't look at him as the words flow over my tongue. "Subhaana rabbiyal 'Alaa," and I swear my voice should be hoarse. Glory to my Lord. But who is my lord? The Most High; but only he is higher than me right now. We're on the highest balcony and I'm kneeling in front of him. Who can be higher than him?

My forehead brushes the floor and I hear a sound from him. Did I imagine it? Could I have imagined that? I can't move now. I have to keep the ritual. I have to whisper the words the best I can. "Innaka hameedun Majeed." Surely you are Praiseworthy, the Glorious. How can I deny such a thing? I could deny him nothing. And now he has my prayers. He has more than my prayers…

The ritual is over. I turn to each side, to each angel on my shoulder. I wonder… I wonder who is recording this moment.


	5. 05

And crying for God's mercy, to grey and clouded skies

Disclaimer: Not mine

Warning: Welcome to the 3x4 (+5) section of the story. Quatre is performing a Salaat in the following stories. Not many warnings again, save that this is all an exercise. And that Wufei is the hardest for me to write, apparently. This chapter is much more observation and opinions than the others, so it reads differently.

And crying for God's mercy, to grey and clouded skies

I find nothing but silence, I open my eyes

I know the others are still within the safehouse. It's never meant safety to me, to stay confined with those walls, with the others, watching them and being watched in return. Privacy is one's own creation and my inner walls are strong enough that I don't need other barriers. And yet every morning I leave the walls behind and come here. It isn't far from the building, just far enough to let me move freely. Here, I practice. It varies day to day what I do and, sometimes, the why varies as well. But I need my freedom and this gives me my space.

Yet today it is not the sanctuary it so normally is. There seems to be no escape as I curl my body, stretching out in a well-practiced moved. Within the Gundams, we must be able to move with restraints and without freedom. Today, I prepare with no limits. But as my hands reach to the sun, I hear a sound. Not footsteps, no one here would allow that. The sound of someone's footsteps not-falling, the sound of wind changing direction, the sound of no one so obvious there simply must be someone nearby. Turning my head without changing my pose, I can see Heero walking towards the other building. A common sight, although quieter today than many days. Did he escape Duo's banter so early?

But silence never lasts and a swinging braid is soon darting to his side, the voice following so quickly I'm not sure which came first. I watch as small animal startle from peaceful bushes and Heero… looks surprised. As if he wasn't listening to his surrounding, as if he too focused on his own silence. Weak. To not listen, to not know; he does not seem the type. How can a perfect soldier ignore that which goes around him? But it will not last long. Duo is talking again, never stopping. How strange. I don't believe I've ever watched from this far, observed them from this distance.

Soon they are removed from my sight, heading into the cool darkness where our Gundams are stored. I wait a moment to let his voice fade before turning back to my exercises. Strange things never seem to cease when we are all together, friendships growing and wilting within moments. As often as I try to avoid such things, it is not always possible. And others, I see, crave such moments. Both Duo and Quatre seem to thrive in such a setting. Why do I come? Why do any of the others come? We suffer for their needs.

Leaning my head back, my vision catches a halo of blonde hair followed, far too closely, by a familiar sight. Trowa's height is quite obvious. They stand together on the balcony, Trowa's back to me and Quatre in front of him. I see the blonde there on a daily basis, always alone. He bows, follows his own rituals of strength. I hear his voice, sometimes, the sounds of a foreign language floating down to me. My lessons included minimal Arabic, but even my infinitesimal knowledge allows me to recognize what he is speaking.

His motions are as fluid as mine, though in a different way. His faith fuels each smooth motions. I move to knowledge. I know that justice will win this war for us. I know that we cannot afford to lose. That guides me through my practice and through these indeterminate hours both alone and together. The others, sometimes, seem to have more. And the unfolding action on the balcony above my head seems to be an illustration of such things.

Quatre's daily prayers seem to be quieter, even my ears unable to find the words. And Trowa is watching him. This seems a private moments, strangely. More private to see the two of them than to watch the other alone in prayer. But there is something that compels me. I cannot look away. I know every movement Quatre has, I have watched him many times as I prepare to meditate. It is sometimes calming to see his smooth movements, to hear his voice from a distance. I do not know why.

And then his blonde head disappears beneath the fence and the horizon, as it always does. But his movements, his actions… there is something I am missing. Something I cannot see. Why does it seem so private? I have seen him bow many times. What is so different now? I tilt my head back to try and see above what I normally do, unable to hear his voice.

There is Trowa, highlighted in the sun, exactly where Quatre faces when he bows. And despite my understanding… I cannot look away.


	6. The Poem

For the beads touch my fingers, hear my prayers

This is the poem which inspired the whole shebang you guys just read. You'll note that each story started with two lines, but I wanted to share the whole thing with you. Yes, I wrote it and, yes, it rhymes. I hope you guys enjoyed my story (my first attempt at an actual Gundam Wing Story). I think I had a little too much fun writing it. Please review and thanks for reading!

**Rosary**

For the beads touch my fingers, hear my prayers  
Bruises only fade, they do not disappear

My prayers are unheeded, silent and beseeched  
Head lowered to my chest, strength leached

Scars of strengths and weakness, both intertwined  
As I touch the cross, eyes closed to leave me blind

In the darkness, I don't need my eyes to see  
Hiding in the light, I use my heart to guide me

And crying for God's mercy, to grey and clouded skies  
I find nothing but silence, I open my eyes


End file.
